


Maybe they care.

by hidinginmyroom



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Depressing, Depression, Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-02
Updated: 2013-01-02
Packaged: 2017-11-23 09:07:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,310
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/620439
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hidinginmyroom/pseuds/hidinginmyroom
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry is broken and this is how he's dealing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Maybe they care.

It might not be right way to deal with a problem like this, or it’s not the right way to deal with anything. Because doing this is not alright, and Harry knew he needed to stop. Still why should he? Nobody said anything about it. They didn’t care. Not at all, they fucking knew and he fucking told them. He told everybody, and they didn’t do a thing about it. They never even cared. He stood there in front of them all and showed them the fucking scars on his hips. They didn’t even say anything. Just oh. Nobody ever talked about it again and they didn’t let him bring it up ever. Just ignored him, started talking about something else or when he wrote it to them they just deleted it and pretended that they had never even seen it. All of them pretended that it wasn’t anything wrong with him and he just stopped talking about his problems all together.

Instead he would make a big deal about little things that he didn’t actually care about. Like loosing something that was easily replaced or just someone doing a little ting that people, who weren’t ignorant cunts, wouldn’t care about. He pretended that his life was so great that stupid things like that was all he had to be upset about, because that would make people think he was fine and well even if they didn’t care it was better like this.

He stopped talking to all those people he told, the once that didn’t actually care about him. Or he tried to stop, they would still talk to him sometimes, ask him to hang out or things like that. He was never the one to ask them, but he still said yes each time. Hope that maybe one of them would ask him how he was doing and if he was better. Ask him if he was still hurting himself and tell him that they were there if he needed them. He just wanted one person to care.

They never asked and they never seemed to care, and it broke him down more each time he hung out with them or just met them somewhere. It made the thoughts he had of no one caring about him get stronger. Because he had proof of it. All those people he told, and not one of them wanted to be there for him. Nobody did care and he couldn’t understand why. Well he could, but he didn’t wan that to be the reason. He didn’t want the reason for people not caring be that he was ugly and acted different than most people. Why did that make it okay for people to ignore him. And why couldn’t they care. Was it because he was afraid of talking and had a hard time believing that people even cared enough to listen when he talked?

He got new friends that he thought cared, because they never gave him a reason to think that they didn’t. Always talking to him and never looking to annoyed when he did something a little weird. He still wasn’t sure if they even liked him, was still afraid that they secretly hated him and just did it all as a joke, and made fun of him behind if back. Why would they even like him? There was noting good about him.

So when they would say something nice to him, like that he was one of their best friends and just things that suggested that they actually liked being around him and that he wasn’t just in the way it would bring tears to his eyes. He never thought that people actually liked him and having people telling him over and over that yes they did like him made him cry. He could hide it in front of them but still it made his days so mush better and he felt like he actually mattered. Feeling that good didn’t last long, just until he was home alone and his thoughts was telling him how worthless and useless he was. His mind was telling him that it was all a joke and they were making fun of him when he wasn’t around.

 

It made him feel better in public and made he not be so afraid of talking and he could be himself when he was around them. They were the greatest and he was so glad he had them in his life. It was his own thoughts that was telling him all the bad stuff and made him be afraid of believing that anybody could even not hate him.

He was still hurting himself, never really stopped. Going long periods of time not doing anything bad but then it would go to hell and he would just go to the one thing that made everything feel fine. Even when he was alone. It was then he would drag the razor over his skin. Other times when it was bad, but not that bad he would just use hot water or rubber bands. Just standing in the shower under the water that made his whole body hurt, or just standing in the bathroom with his hands in the sink filled with to hot water, and tears running down his face. He wasn’t a fan of lighters, they kind of scared him a little. The flame was just so alive and it was weird but it was so scary and he tried it once or twice but it was always a last resort. When he didn’t have anything else to make the panic or the anger go away.

The ting that he was scared of the most was telling them, telling his new friends about how messed up he was. How broken he was and how he actually need help, or just someone to care. He didn’t want it to be like the last time, when telling just made everything so much worse, when he ended up completely alone and even more broken when he asked for help. When he wanted to get better. He wasn’t sure if he wanted that anymore, but at the same time it was all he wanted. Wanted his friends, the once that he was so sure of cared, and at the same time so scared of that didn’t. He just didn’t want them to hate him or ignore him for being weak and for having a big problem. So instead of telling he did something even stupider.

He became reckless.  
He stopped hiding it.  
He started leaving hints.  
He joked about being ill.  
He told little truths about being scared of everything. 

Not caring if he had scars when he took of cloths and just pretending everything was fine. He did this and noting happened. Nobody said anything about it, nobody seemed to notice what he was doing. Nobody saw the scars or heard the pain in his voice when he said that he wasn’t normal and that he was sick. They didn’t notice, or as his thoughts was telling him. They all saw but didn’t care. Pretended to do notice so that they didn’t have to do anything about it. Because if they didn’t know, it wasn’t their problem.

He was so broken and hurt and frankly so really really alone. He needed help and he needed someone to tell him that he did matter and that he was worth saving. That they would care if he ended it and that it was NOT an option. All he needed was comfort and someone to be there and tell him that it was all right to be just like he was. Him with his scars, messed up thoughts, stupid opinions and weird actions and everything that he was. He didn’t need to be perfect, just have people be okay with what he was.


End file.
